Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1 Page 12

  “I understand, Mr. Lambert, and no matter what we do, I will pay you for your time. It is just that—”

  “Of all the rudeness. Just what I would expect of an upstart like you!”

  Rebecca gasped at her father’s words, and Valentine slowly rose to his feet.

  “Mr. Lambert,” he said, breathing slowly as he worked to keep his temper in check, for Rebecca’s sake more than any other reason. “I believe that was uncalled for.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t mean that, Father,” Rebecca said, rounding the table to stand between the two men. “We apologize, Val— your grace.”

  “Rebecca, that is enough. You will not speak for me in this,” Mr. Lambert said, stepping forward so that she was behind him once more. “I—”

  “Good afternoon!”

  Jemima stepped into the dining room, and Valentine breathed a sigh of relief. For once in her life, his sister had impeccable timing. Her hair was slightly askew, but she was distracted enough that she did not immediately pick up on the animosity in the room, as her attention was caught by the house plans on the table.

  “Oh, your plans are finished, how lovely!”

  She bent over them and began running her finger along some of the rooms, reading the descriptions of each. “How smart,” she murmured as she reviewed them. “Oh, and you have created a laboratory for me in this estate as well! Thank you, Mr. Lambert. I so appreciate it.”

  Except, why, Valentine wondered, was she looking at Rebecca?

  “We did think you would enjoy it,” Rebecca said before her father could open his mouth again. “Now, come, Father, why do we not return to the gallery for a while and discuss things a little further?”

  She gathered the plans in her arms.

  “We shall see you all at dinner. Good afternoon.”

  Her father looked as though he wanted to say something more, but at Rebecca’s pointed gaze, he sighed in defeat and followed after her.

  The St. Vincents simply stared at one another afterward, and Val wondered just what was going on.

  17

  Rebecca was cleaning up her papers and pencils from the revisions she had completed following the disaster of a meeting they had held when Jemima entered the room. Her strawberry-blonde hair was pulled back tightly away from her face, though small ringlets had escaped, held back by a headband she had fashioned.

  “Am I disturbing you?” she asked as she paused in the doorway, a questioning look on her face.

  “Not at all,” Rebecca said, looking up with a smile. “In fact, I am pleased to see you.” The two of them had become much closer over the past couple of weeks. Jemima had a sharp mind, one that was constantly working, solving problems and determining more ingenuities.

  Jemima took a seat on the wooden chair where Rebecca’s father purportedly worked and leaned an elbow back on his desk.

  “You’ve been busy,” she remarked, and Rebecca nodded.

  “Yes, helping my father,” she said. “He has been making some revisions following our meeting with your brother earlier today. He was thinking that if we do not add another wing, as was the original plan, then we could—”

  “Rebecca,” Jemima gently interrupted. “Your father does not care that Valentine has no money to pay for these renovations, as long as he is getting paid.”

  “Oh, but of course he does. Or, at least, he will design everything to Valentine’s specifications. He—”

  Warmth crept into her cheeks when she realized that she had used Valentine’s given name.

  “That is to say—”

  But she stopped at Jemima’s knowing expression. At first she thought Val’s sister had guessed at her relationship with Valentine, but then she completely surprised her.

  “Rebecca, I know that it is not your father who has drawn all of these plans.”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” Rebecca managed.

  Jemima rose and walked over to study the drawings once more.

  “Look at these,” she said. “The innovation, the care you’ve taken. You have thought of everything. There is a laboratory for me, a sitting room for mother, a training room for Val. Your father may be an incredible architect in his own right, but his focus would be on creating a legacy for himself and his own name. He would be looking to add a ballroom that would be talked about by all who attend. A library that stretches to the sky with angels circling the ceiling and raining down books. But that is not what these plans hold. You have turned this very room into a library, because it makes sense. We do not have the paintings to create another long gallery, but I’m sure we can find books enough to fill it.”

  Rebecca was speechless, and Jemima just smiled.

  “I am more observant than you might think. One has to be, as a scientist. The most interesting experiments are not those that you control, but those that are taking place in the chaos of the world around you.”

  Rebecca sat heavily in her own chair, her gaze remaining on Jemima.

  “I did everything I could just to help my father at first,” she said, hoping that if she explained herself well enough, Jemima would forgive her deception. “But when he began to lose interest in his work, I took it up myself because, truth be told, we needed the money after he took part in a foolish project.”

  “But your father is losing his mental capacity, isn’t he?” Jemima said with a sympathetic gaze, and Rebecca nodded, a lump forming in her throat that she could finally unburden herself, share her deepest secrets with someone who might partially understand.

  “It’s getting worse,” she said, her words gutted. “And I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Have you told Val?” Jemima asked, and Rebecca shook her head furiously.

  “No. And please, promise you will not say anything.”

  “Are you worried that he will fire you?” Jemima asked, tilting her head and studying Rebecca. “I do not think he would, for he appreciates what you have done so far, and he is clearly not the type of man to begrudge a woman’s intellect. You— oooh,” she said, bringing a hand to her chin.

  Rebecca’s eyes widened. What secret had Jemima apparently stumbled upon now?

  “You love him,” Jemima stated.

  “I do not love him,” Rebecca said with a gasp, and Jemima’s eyebrows shot up nearly as high as her forehead at the emphasis of Rebecca’s words.

  “That is to say, I—”

  “You care for him, then,” Jemima stated, and when Rebecca opened her mouth to protest, Jemima shook her head. “I have been an idiot,” she murmured. “Now that I think on it, it was there all along. Oh, I wish you had told me.”

  Rebecca looked down at her hands, somewhat ashamed.

  “You are his sister,” she said awkwardly, and Jemima nodded.

  “I am,” she said, rising and coming over toward Rebecca, taking her hands in hers. “And I approve wholeheartedly.”

  “You would likely be the only one,” Rebecca said softly, willing the tears to retreat back into her eyes. “I am not the woman for him, Jemima. I have no title, no prospects, and no money, particularly if my plan doesn’t work.”

  “And what plan is that?”

  Rebecca, relieved of the change in subject from her affections for Valentine, quickly described for Jemima their current crisis with the speculative housing, and her idea to hold a lottery with the prizes being the houses themselves.

  “It should catch interest,” she mused, “though my father fears that the neighbors will not be particularly pleased that just anyone might find themselves the owner of such a home.”

  “That is no one’s problem but their own,” said Jemima with a sniff, and Rebecca realized that she had basically been describing the St. Vincent’s own rise in fortunes.

  “Yes, well, we may have to receive permission from the Crown to move forward, and I worry that we will never do so,” Rebecca said, and Jemima nodded knowingly.

  “Have you asked Valentine to help?”

  “No,” Rebecca said, shaking her head. “A
nd I have no plan to. He has more than enough to worry about without my own troubles.”

  “Jemima!” Her mother’s voice carried down the hall and Jemima sighed, rolling her eyes at Rebecca.

  “I best go. Mama wants to invite one of the neighbors over tomorrow, and she insists that I add my name to the invitation. But please, Rebecca, give Valentine a chance. Tell him the truth of it all. You never know what good could come of it.”

  “I will,” Rebecca promised. “I’m not sure when, but I will.”

  “Good,” Jemima said with a teasing grin, “because I am terrible at keeping secrets.”

  “Jemima!” Rebecca laughed as her friend left the room.

  She took a seat with a sigh. She was terribly relieved to have someone to share the truth with, although now she was fretting about speaking with Valentine. He had told her a few times now that one of the qualities he most admired about her was her straightforwardness, her willingness to always be there to support others.

  But she had been selfish. She designed in part to help her father and maintain his legacy, true, but there was more to it. She worked because she loved it. Taking a pencil to paper and letting her ideas run free through her drawings brought her more joy than nearly anything else, and she didn’t want to let it go.

  If Valentine — or his mother — ever named her as a fraud, then she would never work again. Nor would her father. They would lose everything — his good name, their work, any future income, and her ability to do what she loved.

  Yet the closer they grew, the more apparent it was that she needed to tell him, and she would.

  She just had to find the right time.

  * * *

  “Mr. Lambert, I am pleased that we could reconvene,” Valentine said as he and the architect sat across from one another in the drawing room. “I am sure we can come to an understanding.”

  The truth of it was that if anyone had insulted him so in his former life he would not likely have been quite as determined to find a resolution. But this was Rebecca’s father, for one, and a respected architect, for another.

  So he would be polite, civil, and work through this.

  “I’m sure we can,” Mr. Lambert said, though his gaze was off in the distance.

  Valentine opened his mouth to continue, but just then, there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” Valentine called, expecting a footman with a drink for the two of them.

  But it was Rebecca, looking as splendid as always. She held out house plans toward them, then began to explain.

  “Father, you forgot these in the long gallery. These are the revisions you made following your previous discussion with his grace.”

  Mr. Lambert looked at her oddly.

  “I do not recall making such revisions.”

  “Oh, Father, don’t be silly,” she said, a desperate expression on her face. “Of course you did. Here you are, your grace.”

  She passed him the drawings, but didn’t leave the room. Valentine unfurled them and began to study them, delight leaping into his countenance at what he would say. The complex had been made simple, the grandeur elegant now instead of what would be, in his mind, quite expensive.

  “This is perfect,” he said, a smile growing on his face as he looked between father and daughter. “Mr. Lambert, these are—”

  “Rubbish!” Lambert said, and Valentine’s head tilted up.

  “Pardon me?”

  “What we did before was much better. These are rubbish. But,” he threw his hands in the air, “if this is what you want, then so be it.”

  He sighed as Valentine stared at him and then at the plans. Something wasn’t right. It just didn’t add up. There was no way that Mr. Lambert had—

  But then he lost his sequence of thought when his mother appeared in the doorway.

  “Valentine!” she said, her face wreathed in smiles and his stomach became rather queasy. Those were the smiles she usually wore when they were out in polite society — when she was trying to prove herself as mother to a duke, despite her rather common beginnings.

  “I have a surprise!” she said. “Lady Rothwell is here to visit. They are but a short ride away. And she has brought her daughter, Lady Fredericka. Jemima will be joining us in a moment, but I thought perhaps that you and I could entertain them until she arrives?”

  Valentine rose, furious with his mother for not providing him with any warning of such a visit. But then the woman and her daughter entered, and he had no choice but to nod in greeting and be as polite as was expected of a man of his station.

  “Good morning,” he mumbled, stealing a look over at Rebecca. Her eyes had widened and the corners of her lips had dropped. What was the matter with her?

  He followed her eyes to Lady Fredericka. She was a pretty thing. Quite tiny, with brown hair piled high on her head, her eyes a warm brown. She did seem friendly, at least. Then he looked over at his mother, who was smiling as though she had been named Queen of England. Lady Rothwell’s expression was near matching.

  And then he realized what this was about, and what had so dismayed Rebecca.

  His mother was making a match for him.

  “Lady Rothwell, Lady Fredericka,” he finally managed. “This is our architect, Mr. Lambert, and his daughter, Miss Lambert. They are staying with us—”

  “To complete my father’s work, but he is now finished,” Rebecca said, clearly choosing to ignore the open-mouth stares of the women at the fact she would interrupt a duke, but she needed away from this room as quickly as possible. “We will be returning to London tomorrow.”

  “Re— Miss Lambert,” he said with a silent warning as it felt as though he had been punched in the stomach, “perhaps we should speak of this later?”

  “Yes, let us do that,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, clapping her hands together. “Would you mind excusing us, Mr. Lambert, Miss Lambert?”

  “Of course,” Rebecca said, gathering her father’s things, though Valentine didn’t miss the silent anger and dismay emanating from her. “Good day. It was a pleasure to meet you both.”

  And as she sailed to the door, Valentine was powerless to do anything but watch her go.

  18

  Rebecca rushed around the long gallery, furiously blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. She refused to allow them. She had known what the outcome of this brief interlude with Valentine would be. He had to marry a woman of his own class now. A woman who would integrate him within the nobility, who would have a dowry that could restore the dukedom to its former glory.

  The only role she played within that scenario was ensuring that his homes were befitting of the Duke of Wyndham and would properly impress all who visited.

  She had placed all of her tools in a large bag and was half-dragging, half-carrying it out of the room to leave it by the entrance when she stumbled into someone. She just about went flying backward when a hand came out to steady her.

  “I say, are you all right, Miss Lambert?”

  Rebecca looked up to see a warm smile from underneath questioning brown eyes.

  “Lady Fredericka,” she said, righting herself. “My apologies. I was just—”

  “Leaving?” the woman asked, and Rebecca couldn’t help but appreciate the beautiful gown she wore. It was cream with a lace fichu, red ribboning around the hem and neckline.

  “Soon,” Rebecca said with a nod, eager to be away from the woman who may take on the role she had come to realize she very, very much would have aspired to assume herself — that of Valentine’s wife.

  “Are you all right, Miss Lambert?” Lady Fredericka asked, peering up at Rebecca, for despite the fact that Rebecca wasn’t overly tall, this woman was quite short. Valentine would tower over top of her.

  “I’m fine,” Rebecca said hurriedly. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Oh, no,” the woman said, shaking her head. “I just needed a moment alone in the powder room.” She blushed. “I suppose I shouldn’t admit such a thing.”

&n
bsp; Rebecca couldn’t help but laugh. “If there is anyone that is comfortable in speaking of such things, it would be me.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” Lady Fredericka said and then sighed. “Well, I am sorry that you are leaving. You seem quite lovely, and I could use a friend or two close by. Perhaps if we are both ever in London we could take tea together.”

  Rebecca couldn’t hide her shock. “With me? Lady Fredericka, I am flattered, but I am simply the daughter of an architect, and you are—”

  “Freddie,” she finished. “Call me Freddie. I much prefer it. Well, good day, Miss Lambert. I hope to see you again.”

  Rebecca could only stare after her as she quickly and efficiently strode down the hall with her short strides.

  Damn it. She liked her.

  * * *

  Rebecca didn’t come to him that night.

  Valentine waited, quite impatiently, but she never showed up through his dressing room door. He took the stairs down to the long gallery himself, but when he arrived, it was completely empty of both her and any sign that she or her father had ever been there. The fire had even simmered to embers. It was as it had been before they had arrived. The thought filled him with such melancholy that he had to leave the room.

  And try to determine just where her bedchamber was located.

  He was like a prowler in his own home as he strode down the corridor of the guest wing. He had to be careful — her father had likely been placed in a room quite close. This was ridiculous, he reasoned as he stopped in front of one door after another, listening for sounds within. He was a duke for goodness sake, and this was his estate. He shouldn’t feel the thief.

  And yet he was. He had stolen from Rebecca her innocence, despite the fact she had freely given it, and he felt the very bounder that he was. He was the son of a physician who hadn’t been good enough to follow in his father’s footsteps, so instead he had relied on his baser urges and become a pugilist. His decision had led to the loss of his brother. The fact that he was a duke now? Dumb luck, more than anything.